


The Definition of Relief

by Radioluminescence



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, i know it’s typical to say you cried when you write something sad but ow my eyes hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:33:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23992357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radioluminescence/pseuds/Radioluminescence
Summary: The Protectobots use Ambulon’s corpse to form Defensor, and First Aid gets to see his friend one last time.
Relationships: Ambulon/First Aid (Transformers)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	The Definition of Relief

**Author's Note:**

> everything hurts  
> we have clarification that combining with a corpse really fucks with you mentally, so i thought i'd run with that!

He feels a surge of energy when they first combine, and it’s as though Rook has never died. The pieces slot into place. Many parts become a whole, and they morph into something large. The expansion gives him new arms and legs, with the addition of company in his head that buzzes with excitement over their imminent escape.

The configurations adjust to their newest member, who’s already in his alt-mode--courtesy of a manual trigger by First Aid. For a second, the gestalt bond is swept up in grief for Rook. They mourn him and his presence, a true phantom limb that’s there even as he lies in pieces on the floor above. Then, that moment passes. Familiarity might’ve made it hurt more.

They’re at full height when the pain hits. The sudden and excruciating flash begins at the connector point in the abdominal ports and moves up the spine until it’s consumed every joint in the combiner’s body. Though he’s been shot, blown to pieces, burned, and tortured, it’s a brand-new and almost unbearable pain for First Aid. 

It’s coupled with terror, far worse than anything he’s ever experienced. It splits him with a clean incision line, knocking his internal systems out of place. His transformation cog pulses, unsure if base instinct is telling it to reverse the combination or remain as is. Defensive protocol kicks in, trying to understand what’s made First Aid cold with dread.

He sees purple gush out of him. What starts as a sting explodes out of his chest, warping the plating that’s there. He tries to bring his hands in to stop the bleeding but his body is imaginary, as is the wound that cuts so deep. Bursts of energy erupt from his spark, which spasms as though it’s checking to make sure he’s alive.

Over the sound of his gestalt brothers screaming in pain, he wonders if this was what Ambulon felt like when he was dying. 

Though he’d at first been rearing back from the pain, he fights every instinct he has to bend forward and keep moving, pursuing the pain at its source in the bond. Something that sounds like Ambulon slumbers under him. No words are said; instead, there’s an incessant, monotone humming. It reminds him of a flatline. 

He latches onto that voice and holds on as he’s pulled downward. Defensor’s arm locks into place as the paralysis sets in. First Aid has lost all of his control over functions. Even his own thoughts are held hostage during the plunge down into the dead mech’s mind. He ceases to be an individual. He may as well share Ambulon’s name now.

His vision swims, entering him into a blackened state of washed-out shapes and a voice that could be his, screaming out for mercy. He tries to match the pitch. It’s masochistic, yes, but he wants to know how it felt, or at least emulate what it was like. Ratchet said Ambulon had died before the chainsaw had even exited his body. Now, he’s not so sure. 

Ambulon’s death isn’t so much a quick action as it is a slow assessment of the situation. It takes a long time to split apart, each half holding onto the other for dear life. His self-repair never onlines, neither does his medic coding. They understand, more than he does in some scenarios, that this patient can’t be saved.

It’s an ominous memory, as nothing behaves as it should. The shrill, electric whir of the chainsaw is absent, as is Pharma’s maniacal laughter. The snarls of the Legislators in the background, the blasts of energy from above as the last of the resistance is cut, and the hideous, wet sound of his energon spraying out are not there.

Ambulon doesn’t hear that. He hears his own scream. He hears First Aid cry out. It’s desperate-sounding--soft, wrenching. Ratchet screams too. 

They both sound so...frail. What happened to medical indomitability? Hundreds of thousands of patients have passed through their care, some with worse injuries than this. The inflection in their voices suggests a care for him. It informs their opinion of him now, and it means they will grieve him when he’s gone.

In that moment, Ambulon realizes something he’d known, but never rested on for his entire life. He was loved.

Relief surges up through the connection. Relief, for being spared from death in his first fight as an M.T.O. 

Relief, for meeting the Autobots that saved his life and planted the idea in his processor that he should defect after the botched combiner experiment. 

Relief, for being accepted on the other side with nothing more than a grimace and a stab of pain as his Decepticon badge is scraped from his arm.

Relief, for being told he could practice under a field medic, so that he could make himself useful. 

_Pride,_ at being told he was better at saving lives than taking them.

Then more relief for having known him: First Aid. A big relief, for being able to work by his side all those years, even when Rung’s diagnosis threatened their friendship.

It’s followed by a smaller relief, almost a whisper, when First Aid helped paint him after the ensuing argument. Whisper it may be, it’s one of the clearest memories Ambulon has.

Pride again, at being an Autobot when he admires himself in the mirror. First Aid can see himself in the reflection. He’s also in the memory of them together in the break room, sipping energon and enjoying each other’s company. They’re the quiet moments that they will never get back, which seemed so long at the time but short in passing.

Then, a second relief for being forgiven. Forgiven for what, First Aid doesn’t know.

Relief, for having been known. 

And loved. 

Ambulon was loved.

First Aid is looking at himself, as Ambulon’s spark fades away. Ambulon dies seeing red and white. And in those last moments, when the agony must have been intolerably severe, Ambulon was able to smile, and say he was at peace with his life.

Mostly. Something _was_ left unsaid. Ambulon’s corpse holds onto it now, though the message has long-since become encrypted by death’s hold. First Aid pries at the fingers holding it from him as much as he can, but he has to come up for air now. Defensor needs him. If he stays here much longer, he will run the risk of corrupting the gestalt bond. From that, he will never recover, living his life plagued with thoughts that are nothing more than a low hum.

Ambulon’s fingers don’t give way, but he sees the light shining from within. In this horrible, graying body, it’s the last source of warmth. It covers First Aid’s body, touching him when another pair of hands cannot. It pushes him up, back to the world of the living. Back, so that he can save more lives now.

 _Thank you,_ says Ambulon. And Defensor roars out, seeking vengeance.

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on my [tumblr](https://amaltheeia.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
